August 13, 2022. Our dessert chapter at school was coming to an end, and we had to show Chef Vasquez if we had really inherited his sweet thumb, or if we were confined to the grill for the rest of our lives. We were divided in groups of three to bake a wedding cake and decorate it, and on the side, we all got assigned individually a sugary wonder to test our glucose prowess by ourselves. Some got the puff pastry, others got the pâte-a-choux, some got the all-feared soufflé, and I got the ice-cream. Chef Vasquez was a very old-fashioned man. He used to be from the 82nd Paratrooper Brigade, but on one of his jumps he landed in a kitchen and liked it better there. He liked us to learn how to do things as if we had no electricity––mayonnaise by hand, eggs for the sponge cake whipped by elbow grease, peeling veggies with a pairing knife and not a peeler, and forget pasta machines when there's rolling pins. Don't get me wrong, I'm ever-thankful for his teachings; knowing how to work with your hands is one vitally important thing in the kitchen.
Now, in par with his methodology, the ice-cream I had to do for the test had to be frozen by hand, so I went to my trusty kitchen supply store for a huge bucket and a not-so-huge bucket. The plan was simple: I'd fill the huge bucket with ice, and put the not-so-huge bucket inside of the huge bucket, so that when I poured the cream inside the not-so-huge bucket and spun it around with a wooden spoon, the cream on the walls of the not-so-huge bucket would supercool and freeze without hardening. It worked! But boy, what a workout. All the spinning could've generated enough electricity for a small town.
First we presented the cake, which was a bit rough. We wet the sponge with coffee and rum, but the rum let's say it had enough presence that a single piece would make you (and I promise) quite drunk. On the outside it wasn't any better. The prompt said WEDDING CAKE. What do you think of when you think of a wedding cake? White on white, simple, little pearls here and there and overall cute. No. "You can't leave it white" said Chef, 10 minutes before zero hour. I started puffing some rice from a bag laying alone in class, we borrowed some coloured sprinkles and somebody brought in a blue rose. So our wedding cake had cute little coloured stars, rainbow sprinkles, puffed rice, a strawberry and a blue rose. It was hard not to laugh.
Next, I presented the ice cream. It was now cream (no ice), because August. A quenelle of guava ice cream over slices of fried plantain, with little pieces of bacon and guava on top. I was pretty impressed! It was a blob, but it was good! But no time to eat. 30 minutes to pick everything up and go home. Sticky but happy, I got into the car and zoomed home because I had to get dandied up. It was my mother's best friend's wedding. I put on my favourite suit (which I inherited from my old pops) and drove to the wedding looking sharp and smelling fresh.
A very nice, small wedding, very good food (of which I could try but a minuscule part because I was stuffed with glucose and simple carbohydrates from trying the desserts at school) and very good to see an old friend I hadn't seen in ages. As the natural swinging from table to table took place, I landed next to this good feller who sparked a good conversation about bars and hospitality. I was into it. "My brother owns a pub" he told me. "That is so cool, I'd love to own one. What's the name of your brother's pub?" I asked. "Cadejo" he said. I beg your pardon, good sir. Your brother doesn't own a pub. He owns twelve of them, and they're probably the highest-grossing chain of pubs in the country PLUS he owns the factory of the beer he serves AND it's very, extremely, objectively good beer.
We carried on the conversation, exchanged numbers, and carried on our own ways. I forgot about Martin (the good feller) until the Monday after the wedding, when I received a message asking if I was interested in joining the new Cadejo they were opening up in the mountains. "Of course!" I answered. He told me to send over my CV. I was making my first professional, real-world CV! I sent it and hoped for the best.
That same week, on Wednesday at 16:06 when I got into my car after work, I saw a missed call, and hesitantly called back (I always call back, one never knows) and a Jessica from Cadejo responded on the other end. I identified myself and she told me they'd been trying to reach me to book an interview for Friday at 15:00, CV in hand. "Perfect!" I answered. I later realized what a stupid thing that was. I had just started my trial period in the kitchen at Crowne Plaza––hard, but beautiful job. With what face was I going to ask permission to leave early on Friday to go to an interview at another company? I was done. No job at the hotel, no job at Cadejo. My life is ruined and my career is dead. Stupid me. What in the world was I thinking? "Ok snap out of it sucker" I told myself. "You're tired. Think slow. Leave the drama. Just ask them; you're not obligated to present an excuse". "Chef, is it alright if I leave tomorrow at 2? I have a very important matter to solve and I only have tomorrow to take care of it. If it's not possible, please don't wo––" "Of course man!" he interrupted. "Take as long as you need". So on Friday after leaving Saturday's breakfast mise-en-place ready, I headed home.
I ironed my trusty white Uniqlo oxford and made sure it had a crease so sharp it cut the air. I put on my last drops of Zara Silver and made it to Cadejo. I got interviewed by a panel of three (one of which was one of my absolute hospitality icons, having run the fattest nightclubs for most of his life), which I must admit, it was absolutely petrifying. I had never gotten interviewed before, so this was new to me. I told them about my relationship with Crowne Plaza and offered me to skip the trial period and get straight into it AND I'd be a bartender. Guess what I chose.
"Chef, do you know how long a trial period is?" I asked the big boss on Monday. "Until somebody leaves the company, so it can be today or in a year" he replied. "I'm asking because I got offered a bartender job, and it's a direct position. I think I'll go with them and leave the kitchen on hold, but I'm terribly ashamed to leave you like this" I told them. "Don't be ashamed with me. If you leave we stay the same. It's not that we're better without you, but we're not worse if you leave. If we ever need you, we'll call you". Best awakening.
I started on Sunday, August 21. After meeting Axel the head bartender and receiving the formalities, and knowing what beer was on which tap, I got assigned to the washing station. At 16:00 washing glassware was a breeze. 17:00 was a stroll. At 18:00 we picked up the pace of a brisk walk, but by 19:00 we were running a 400m sprint on high heels. Did I mention the washing station was a sink with a trickle (I'm serious) of water, and we had to wash glasses with a Scotch-Brite home sponge? No dishwasher, all elbow grease. It was a RUSH. By 21:00 glasses kept on coming in garrisons of 50. "Hurry, boy!" said Mauri, the manager. What a ride.
This went on for the next week, then the next. It was getting dull, and I was cutting my hands like Edward Scissorhands. It was fun to stay alone in the bar. Dirty glasses coming, serving beer, making cocktails, making coffee. Those rushes gave colour to the job. I learned how to do nice designs on capuccinos, which made it even more exciting to be expectant of the Micros to spit out an order for milky coffees. It then came the rainy season, and it was kinda miserable to be washing those stupid glasses in front of an open window that let all the rain and wind come in, but I preferred having it open because it faced a pretty garden.
One evening I got sent over to another Cadejo location because they were up to their necks in crap. They were hosting the launch party for a new home delivery app, and to incentivize people to download the app, they only charged guests 1$ for a 0.5L beer if they proved they had downloaded it into their phone. You can imagine. It felt like being in the mosh pit at a Motley Crue concert. The Micros didn't work, beer barrels were running dry, dirty glasses were adding up like sand in a sandstorm, it was a blitz. I liked it. I liked that location, I really did. It was different. The lights, the space, the environment, the people. I liked it. I realized our location was stuck, and I really started to think. I wasn't going to change, though. Who was I to say this location is better than that? Heck, I was (and still am) a baby with no voice or vote, so I sucked it up and thanked for my job.
A few weeks later, zooming down the highway coming home from school I saw what looked like my mother's car stopped on the shoulder, and I called in to see if it was her. Indeed. Fourth time it had stopped dead on the road without chances of revival (we had gotten used to these antics). This thing didn't even warn before stopping––no lights, no limp home mode, no sound. Just turn off and don't turn back on. We called the tow truck and waited for what felt like weeks. While we were waiting, sitting in the car, with the dog in the backseat (impatient and uneducated as always), my mother said: "I've noticed how down you look these days. Bartending is draining you". "No" I said "I love it. I just don't like where I am, but it's what I have, and I won't change". It kinda made me mad, but I realized she was partially true. "What obligation do you have to stay? You're trying to run a pace you can't run. First finish studying and then get to work, but don't feel bad if you don't have a job at the moment".
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